


Nocturne Op 9 No 2

by venthii



Series: Detroit: Become Human [1]
Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Connor has a bad time, Connor whump, Detective Work, Gen, Hypothermia, Oneshot, Some violence depicted, Whump, seriously connor has a bad time
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-26
Updated: 2019-05-26
Packaged: 2020-03-17 15:36:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,739
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18968167
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/venthii/pseuds/venthii
Summary: Connor rolls his eyes in an excellent imitation of an exasperated teenager.“You will be fi-“He is suddenly reeling to the side, a hammer bashing the side of his skull.——The one where Connor messes up, and is rescued only because of the logistics of his case: don’t kill an accomplice.alternate title: I fuck up connor





	Nocturne Op 9 No 2

The man’s fist slams into Connor’s face, but Connor is quick enough to nail him in the liver, his body responding ghoulishly fast. The accomplice crumples to the ground, bile drenching his black jeans as he loses his composure. Connor is aware of pain as a concept. He is also aware of the fact that his liver punch probably caused some amount of internal bleeding, possibly to the point of no return unless an ambulance arrives in no less than fifty-three minutes. The alley is quiet, shadowed by the stupidly tall buildings on either side, and Connor knows what the man must be feeling. 

He also knows that the accomplice assisted in the murder of over fourteen men and women. He calls the nearest hospital anyway. 

“Hello, 911? Yes, this is Connor RK800, there is an accomplice to a case with me here in need of an ambulance.”

He waits a moment, listening to what the android on the other line has to say, then kneels down before the man, making him lie in recovery position. 

“His vitals are remaining relatively steady, however there is risk of internal bleeding from a massive blunt force to the abdomen. It is not a quick bleed but he is important to the investigation. Please be prompt.”

Kneeling there, Connor feels disheartened. The man is pathetic, really. Lifting up his sleeve, Connor identifies several track marks - another sign pointing to the fact that this was probably a drug den murder ring, most likely a battle for the hold on the newer version of Red Ice, out on the streets. 

“Wh...what d-did you do to me!?” The man cries. 

His eyes are clouded with pain and tears drip over the bridge of his nose onto the ground. Connor is disgusted. He wasn’t aware that was something he could feel. He samples the bile, bringing it to his mouth with distaste. Yes, there were traces of blood, so his guess was as accurate as he assumed. Low potassium levels, low sodium levels...of course it was red ice. He rolls his eyes in an excellent imitation of an exasperated teenager. 

“You will be fi-“

Connor is suddenly reeling to the side, a hammer bashing the side of his skull. It’s a superficial injury, one that he has already computed he will be able to heal himself, in roughly four hours and nine minutes of a continuous healing cycle. He whips around as best as he can with only one half of his optic system currently working, to be face to face with the killer. She’s younger than he expected, but the signs are all there. Track marks line her inner arm, her gaze is wild but not altogether there. She attempts to hammer him again, but he is too fast for her, and he grabs the hammer and wrenches it out of her grasp. She screams, and as Connor prepares himself for another hit, he notices that her upper arm has clearly been broken in two. Perhaps more force than needed had been used. He was angry, frustrated that he had let his defenses down for even a second. She stabs him in the thigh while he’s thinking for a moment. The head injury must be affecting his other biocomponents. 

That’s the last thought he has before he slumps over, unable to move, barely able to think. He is scared. He doesn’t want to die. 

...

Eyes fluttering open, he is met with the icy wall of a walk-in freezer. Already, he can interpret that the ambient temperature is affecting not only his processing ability but the ability to move his legs. Or it’s the head injury. Or it’s the cold. Or his head. 

He can’t think. His hands are duct-taped to some kind of rack that’s bolted to the floor. It wouldn’t be hard to just uproot it but that would come with its own problems. It would be better to free his hands. He couldn’t just uproot it. His hands needed to be free. He couldn’t just-

He’s thinking in circles. Something is wrong. Of course something is wrong, his head is fucked, and everything is fucked, especially his head. Connor presses his forehead panel into his mid-leg replacement ports, tucking them closer to his body. Sluggish, he struggles against the tape. Usually it wouldn’t be a match for him, but he can’t seem to find his strength. He doesn’t know how long he’s been in here. 

It takes approximately fourteen minutes for Connor to free his hands. He stands, ignoring the desperate ache in his leg ports, ignoring the flickering warning signals flashing through his one working ocular processor, Connor walks to what appears to be the door. A glance at the serial number on the frame is enough to tell him that this is the CD4X9331 model of indoor/outdoor freezers put on the market in 2031 and recalled that same year for their inability to regulate internal temperatures, and for their obviously dangerous lack of an inner handle. Clearly not everyone had paid attention to that recall. 

Connor slams his leg into the area right below where the lock would be, but the force is only enough to knock a sheet of ice down from the ceiling. It clatters onto the ground, and that’s when Connor notices the upper window, caked in frost. Shivering, his components trying to preserve heat, Connor writes quickly in the window, so it might be seen from outside:

CALL FOR HELP. I AM ALIVE. 

His thirium supplies are already dragging through his body like a slushy, reducing the feeling in his arms and legs, and he can already feel his battery trying to give out. He jogs for a moment, then realizes that will do nothing if he cannot keep the heat he generates within his body. He has an idea. 

He runs a diagnostics scan, then three more. Then he runs a screening of all the cases he’s solved so far. Then another diagnostics scan. He can hear the whirring of his processor, enough to at least give his chest a semblance of warmth. He lies down. He’s so tired. He runs another diagnostic scan. He doesn’t read the results. He runs another. Eventually, he is too sleepy. It’s too cold. His thirium is clogging his system, staggering through his veins. His one good eye closes. He’ll just. Reboot. Yeah. Just needs. A few. Minutes. 

...  
Hank bursts into the freezer like he isn’t human, full of such sharp precision usually unseen by the rest of his coworkers. Two new ones are there, hired several months ago. One is investigating a patch of bile cooking on the hot street, the other is lifting a small amount of burnt aluminum foil tinged red into a bag marked EVIDENCE. Hank cradles his son, picking him up and dragging him out of the cold hell. 

“CONNOR. Connor. Can you hear me?” He says, frantic. 

Connor doesn’t respond. Hank lies him on the hot concrete, under the sun. He lowers his head to Connor’s chest. A low whir, the fluttering, unsteady beat of his pump regulator. There’s a small indent on the side of his face, like he had been hit by something. Already it looks as if it’s about to heal over. Distraught, Hank wonders how many hours he’d been locked inside that icy prison. 

“Hllk!” Sputtering, Connor hacks up a half-frozen slurry of thirium. His left eye opened, but his right remained half-closed, and he blearily looks up at Hank. Hank startles, then opens his bag. There’s a few puncture-proof blood bags in there. He knows it. He opens one, hissing as the cap burns the tip of his fingers. His bag has been in his car the whole day, save for the last ten minutes, when a passing android finally reported the odd sign she had seen written in the frost of an old decrepit freezer. Hank rips it open, helping Connor sit up slightly, and drains the bag into his mouth. It’s hot, and a stray splash makes Hank’s mouth twist in pain. Somewhere in the back of his mind he’s happy his work bag was left in the back of his car, rather than in the air conditioned office. 

Connor blinks, twice, then sputters, another mostly solid chunk of thirium drooling out of his mouth, smaller this time. Melting. His processor is already whirring again at full force, and he’s suddenly so very uncomfortable. His extremities are freezing and he can’t move them quite yet. But his pump is back in working order, and he can think with a little more clarity than before. 

“Hank...?” Connor shivers. 

“Connor, I’m so glad you’re okay.” 

Hank pulls him into an embrace, tucking his head against his neck. Hank’s grey hair tickles Connor’s temporal panel, and he closes his eyes. 

“I’ll need to go in for repairs. She damaged my ocular sensors.”

“She? Connor, maybe you’re confused. The killer was apprehended by paramedic androids four hours ago. He had internal bleeding, if they hadn’t gotten to a hospital in time he would have been dead. They said you called him in.” Hank says, worry evident in the way his hands are shaking. 

“No!” He struggles upright, jerking away from Hank. “DAMN IT!”

“Connor. Woah, take a breath.”

“I don’t breathe, lieutenant.” he snaps, before turning away for a moment. 

“That man was an accomplice. The killer was a female, aged twenty to twenty four, short, choppy, bleached hair. I broke her arm.” He says, sharp and unfeeling. 

“Connor. Imitate her voice for me. Officer Wess. Can you verify?”

The officer looks up from his camera, eyebrows quirking in confusion.

“Verify what? It was an android who called in.”

“Does this sound like an android to you?” Connor says, pupils blown wide with anger, fear, and confusion. 

“Fffuck.” Wess says, color draining from his face. “She said she was a CW400 model. How was I meant to know she was lying?”

Hank grips Connor’s shoulder, easing him back down. 

“Why would she call us to the scene? Why not just leave you to die? I don’t understand.” Hank says, in disbelief. 

“I didn’t let her brother die.”

“Her brother? Oh, god damn it Connor. You lucky son of a bitch.”

Hank embraces him again, and Connor feels the warm sun on his face. He pretends not to know that Hank is crying, because he sort of is too.

**Author's Note:**

> cool so this was my first ever fic I wrote last year, hope y’all enjoyed
> 
> I don’t write dbh anymore, I’m just posting my few saved works now that I finally made an account on here lolr


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